


WAKING DREAM ★

by elfroot



Series: Of Pride and Redemption [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bed Humping, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Frottage, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 17:34:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3217652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfroot/pseuds/elfroot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Cullen Rutherford runs back naked to his quarters after a game of Wicked Grace, his mind heavy with unbidden thoughts of Dorian. Lulled between dream and awareness, his imagination goes wild—his body and his heart as well. [NSFW] <i>There's a touch of awareness leeching into his mind—hazy, slow, a gentle pull from the fade. The growth of stubble shadowing his jaw grazes the pillow with every shallow breath he sighs, lips parted in comfort. In peace. He doesn't wake—he doesn't dream, either, demons at bay, and he fears, distantly, that this is another nightmare, goading and coaxing him into false serenity.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	WAKING DREAM ★

**Author's Note:**

> all my gratitude to lola for being such a kind human being AND for indulging me in my writing whims ♥    
>  i apologize for the cheesy title. and for those unfamiliar with dorian's remark OR the wicked grace game scene, you can find a pretty gif set [right here](http://tevinterr.tumblr.com/post/103944603248/never-bet-against-an-antivan-commander). everyone likes pretty gif sets.

There's a touch of awareness leeching into his mind—hazy, slow, a gentle pull from the fade. The growth of stubble shadowing his jaw grazes the pillow with every shallow breath he sighs, lips parted in comfort. In _peace_. He doesn't wake—he doesn't dream, either, demons at bay, and he fears, distantly, that this is another nightmare, goading and coaxing him into false serenity.

It isn't.

It's odd, and he feels the oddity, but he doesn't want to argue, not with his mind, not when ease has finally settled. It's a moment of respite he wouldn't allow in the waking world, self-contained in spite of his struggles. It's how he overcomes the shadows, structure and vigilance and devotion, but he faltered the night before, and the ale that still scorched his throat as he fell asleep scarcely helped him forget. Wicked Grace is a wicked game, and the remaining tang of alcohol on his tongue wicker still. He lost. Not much in term of gold, but his dignity's taken a spectacular blow, and it's why he lies bare on his bed, draped in sheets that prove dangerously soft on his skin, a distant caress.

A tormenting touch.

Even through the haze in his mind, Dorian's smile blazes with the kind of warmth that squeezes the heart and smolders blood, crooked and sly and more alluring than he'd like to admit. He remembers the stolen glances, glimpses that lingered just long enough to spread color to his cheeks, and beyond their suggestive gleam, he remembers their tender glow, barely there, veiled behind the mage's own secrets. Dorian's voice lures away from his eyes, a skillful distraction, and Cullen remembers that as well, the sulky notes that have haunted him all night.

_Well, I do._

The brazen admission has echoed in his guts ever since he closed his eyes. His hips twitch at the memory—he's hard. It's a vague realization and his brows furrow in retaliation, but rather than rolling onto his back and greeting sunlight with an open gaze, he pushes into the mattress—once, a shy investigation—and he doesn't recognize the sound that bubbles out of his throat. His breath is rough against the pillow, fingers restless at its sides, and he pushes again, a tentative thrust that soothes the pressure in his loins and coaxes him into _more_.

He wants more.

Arousal creeps across his nerves, the linen brushing smooth against his cock. Recognition invades his waking senses, a slow awareness of newly heightened pleasure, but he doesn't want to wake up—he wants this, _Dorian_ , velvet heat stretched underneath his body, and he groans into the pillow, chest pounding.

 _Dorian_. Dorian playing chess, elegantly poised across the board, self-assured and clever and _free_ of his torments, pensive and open in front of him, trusting. Dorian and the cheeky curve to his lips, full and suave and radiating bliss, a tease here and a laugh there, mesmerizing sounds always reaching Cullen's heart. Dorian and the depth of his gaze, dark and true—albeit carefully concealed—chains of mysteries glaring fierce into one's soul, catching his. Dorian and his body, taut and warm and cut in sharp and clean lines, and Cullen remembers his lean shape against his own, strong in the cold of Haven despite his fatigue. He remembers every fantasy it inspired afterwards, a reluctant part of his mind, but it's nowhere near hesitant now.

It stirs his blood and it snaps him out of his slumber, and he knows he's awake, but he can't stop. He imagines Dorian arched beneath him, hard pebbles begging to be licked. His lips part in longing, a swirl of his tongue to wet their shape, and his cock pulses harder against the mattress. The cushioned bedding caves under the budding assaults of his hips, molding his shaft as he pushes and undulates, and a vision of Dorian's open thighs crushes the last of his lucidity, prompting him to brace himself on his elbows for better leverage.

It's Dorian's cock gliding hot and slick against his own, thrusting forward as Cullen's hands clench around his hips, and he drives himself sharply between his thighs, breath ragged and eyes tightly shut. His head hangs low between the broad of his shoulders, and he groans his pleasure unfettered, his mind wild. He can almost feel Dorian's thighs around his waist, pulling him down to meet his thrusts and moaning hoarse against his neck, nails biting flesh in an effort to rock them together as hard as possible. The cadence grows desperate—the sheets aren't enough, and his imagination can only stretch so far when he's never known another man. It brings a crimson shade to his face as he grinds rough and fast around a groan, distantly feeling inadequate, and if his head falters, his cock doesn't. It jerks and it leaks against the soft bedding, the muscles of his arse rippling taut and sure with every thrust. He's so close. His forearms hurt, slightly chafed by his rough movements against the linen, but it's nothing compared to the pressure in his gut, tightening his balls in perfect friction. He rubs himself in quick motions, a frenzy evoking a messy flash of Dorian's flesh in his mind. It's slick with sweat, writhing beneath him, and he writhes as well, skin slapping against skin as he drives himself to completion. He wants to taste his lips, the crook of his neck, the inviting lines of his collarbones, and it's infuriating that he can't—there's an odd pang tightening his chest, but he's too far gone to pay it attention.

There's a constant sound in his throat, gruff and frantic, like the rhythm of his body. It rolls on his tongue and it touches his lips in staccato notes, a litany of broken groans. He's panting hard above the pillow when he feels the first hints of impending orgasm, and he nearly chokes on a chuckle, because he hasn't felt this in so long. But he doesn't. He gasps instead, and he grunts and he grits his teeth, pressing himself harder against the mattress, his legs and his cock and his chest, because he wants more, he _needs_ more, rolling his hips back and forth and left and right until his mind blanks and his arse stiffens, and his cock jerks in bliss.

"Maker's breath, _D-Dorian._.."

His breath breaks into the pillow, and he stills as his shaft erupts, hard and battering in unison with the beat of his heart. It's only a moment before he starts moving again, a rough lament in his throat as his cock rubs in slower circles, and he feels the dampness of the sheets, covered in thick cum, and he's too tired to be embarrassed. He collapses, the rocking of his body easing into a lazy rhythm as his fingers loosen and his breath softens, and his ears ring gently, a pleasant buzz in his head.

It's only when he finally cracks his eyes open that he realizes what he's doing, the pillow crushed against his chest. He's slightly turned on his side, and he's _hugging_ the blighted thing, seeking the kind of warmth that even his release couldn't provide. The kind of smile he always longs to see. The kind of understanding he's imagined too many times in a pair of dark eyes, and he wishes he could stare into them truly, without heat creeping up his face and without the urge to look away.

He sighs, raking a trembling hand through his messy hair. He realizes he wouldn't have minded being seen like this, not by _him,_ and he blushes and he frowns and he curses, but it doesn't keep him from squeezing the pillow harder against him. He's lost coin last night, and his dignity. But it seems ridiculously blatant now that he's lost a lot more, and perhaps it isn't such a bad thing after all. Who else but the man capable of soothing his dreams even from afar could take better care of his heart?

He cracks a smile, cheeks flushed as a sense of renewed peace washes over him. There might come a day where he'll walk out of his chamber and face the world with unruly hair, and perhaps an unsteady posture.

But he'll never hug a damned pillow for anyone else.


End file.
